


The Forty Year Affair

by Mrs_Spooky



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-08 00:10:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7735258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Spooky/pseuds/Mrs_Spooky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's up to Napoleon, Illya, and retiring agent Mike Jenkins to assist a fellow suffering from PTSD.</p><p>The action here takes place immediately after The First Affair Affair (http://archiveofourown.org/works/5835094/chapters/13447537)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That's life, my friend

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The First Affair Affair](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5835094) by [Mrs_Spooky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Spooky/pseuds/Mrs_Spooky). 



The smoking ruins were observed from afar by the large, muscular crewcut wearing man holding a pair of high powered binoculars to his face, a triumphant grin lighting his rough features. He was lying at the top of a rocky bluff in western Turkey satisfied with the work that he and his partner had done, relishing the thought of getting back home to New York City. With a nod, he lowered his hands and spat in the direction of the smoldering pit that used to be a major THRUSH satrap. 

He rolled, and keeping his head down out of caution, scrambled down to the road where his companion was waiting by the car. 

“So we done?” Napoleon asked.

“Done and DONE!” crowed Mike Jenkins as he tossed the binoculars into the back seat and slid into the car on the passenger side, pointing forward with a flourish. “Home, James!”

With a grin, Napoleon started the car and threw it into gear, dust from the dirt road filling the air behind the vehicle as it sped off out of the mountains towards their hotel.

 

***

 

Willis Jackson awoke with a cry, sitting bolt upright in his bed, covered in sweat.  The sunlight filtered in through the torn shade that had been pulled down in a vain attempt to block out the outside world.  The nightmares weren’t letting up and were in fact getting worse. The few friends he still had tried to tell him he needed to talk to a professional, but Jackson wasn’t someone who willingly sought help.  If he couldn’t handle it on his own, then it wasn’t worth handling.

“SSsshhhhhhhhit,” he muttered as he threw black the threadbare blanket and rose shakily to his feet.  His toe bumped a cylindrical object, sending it skittering across the floor. He picked it up and tossed it away with disgust.  Those four Seconals left in the bottle he had bought from that kid in Hell’s Kitchen the day before failed to do him in.  

He padded into the bathroom to relieve himself then stared at his reflection in the tarnished, filthy mirror over the sink.  He looked at the haggard, bruised, brown face that stared blankly back at him, the three day growth of curly black beard covering his lower face and the black, kinky hair covering his head that looked like it hadn’t been washed in over a week.  He thought dimly that a haircut was needed but didn’t care enough to get it done.  He glanced down at his ragged, raw knuckles and remembered the brawl he was in the other night with some guys who were following him. He managed to get away before the heat arrived with their questions.  He knew who those guys were working for and he needed to stay away from them.  He wondered briefly if that guy he caught taking his picture was working with them.  Probably.  _I’m gonna have to move again, goddammit._

With a sigh, he stumbled out to the living room and retrieved his trousers that had been tossed over the armchair, pulling them on as he searched the pile of clothes on the floor next to the bed for a shirt.

 

***

 

The plane had reached cruising altitude and the two U.N.C.L.E. agents had settled in for the long flight home. Adrenaline was still pumping from the completion of their last mission, so they ordered drinks to relax a bit until their connecting flight in Amsterdam. Jenkins grew pensive.

“So. What’s he like?”

Napoleon sipping his drink, “Who?”

“The Russkie, you dope!” Jenkins chuckled.

“He’s got a name, Mike” Napoleon muttered darkly into his scotch. 

Jenkins held up his hands, “Ok, ok! Kuryakin then. Sorry!” _He sure got touchy about the kid._

“Illya?” Napoleon sipped his scotch thoughtfully. “He’s very pragmatic. Quiet, sarcastic and quite the pessimist, truth be told. I called him on it once, he said he was just being Russian. What do *I* know?” he finished with a chuckle. “I told him he needs to smile more, but he told me Russians don’t really smile at people they don’t know and Americans smile too much. I told him he needed to try, it would help. I said if someone doesn’t smile back at Americans, we think they don’t like us. He said he thought that was silly but he said he understood.” He shrugged, “Cultural differences.”

Napoleon flagged down the pretty stewardess and asked for more scotch. Jenkins waved off the offer of another drink. Napoleon twisted the cap off the new bottle and poured it into his glass. 

“Hell of a sense of humor though,” he added, “and he can be kidded, which is lucky for me. I’ve been teasing him since we got back from Boston about him not being able to talk and everything else. “

“And that doesn’t piss him off?”

“No. He gives as good as he gets and he’s very funny. He’s there for you too. You couldn’t ask for a better friend, people just need to give him a chance.” 

“He’s been living with you, hasn’t he?” Jenkins asked, eyebrow raised.

“After what happened I thought it wouldn’t be good for him to be alone in that hotel so I invited him to stay at my place.” Napoleon smiled, “The bean counters were happy about that.”

Jenkins chuckled and nodded. “I read your and Waverly’s reports on how that job went. I just wish Todd hadn’t messed up like he did. He got fired, didn’t he?”

“Immediately fired and handed over to the authorities,” Napoleon replied darkly. “Mister Waverly convinced Illya to press charges, told him if he didn’t, Waverly would himself for damaging one of his agents. He’ll no doubt be in jail for several years.” 

“Serves him right. Todd’s an asshole, everyone knows it. I guess to the junior agents more than us seniors, so we didn’t see what he was really like. I got an earful from Mark Slate just before we left for Turkey. Not too many people are going to miss him, that’s for sure.”

Jenkins dug out the blanket and pillow the airline provided. “I probably should have told you sooner, but I’ve been hearing some gossip from around headquarters.”

“What kind of gossip?” Napoleon asked warily.

Jenkins relayed to Napoleon that he had talked to Linda in communications the night before, after Napoleon had turned in for the night. Seems like word got around about Illya’s performance at Malloy’s and people were impressed, a number of them changing their tune about him. Linda sure was pleased and Napoleon’s smile showed Jenkins that he was pleased too.

“Yeah, she said there are some red faces around headquarters, so I think things are turning around for the kid.” 

Jenkins himself was ashamed that he wasn’t more welcoming when Illya was introduced to them. He was a fundamentally decent man and he was realizing that nobody should be treated the way Illya was when he first arrived.

“Look, Napoleon. I know you’ve been sticking up for him and it is helping too. If he keeps up with the job like he did on his first trip out things will keep getting better. Tell ya what, once he’s back in the field I’ll request him as a partner and I promise I’ll look out for him like it sounds he’ll look out for me.”

Napoleon nodded his thanks, muttering something about MAYBE lending him out as he finished his drink. What he knew about Jenkins though told him the man would keep his word.

“I just hope it’s quick,” Jenkins added, “I have to retire in less than a  month and I do want the chance to work with him.”

Jenkins reclined his seat back and closed his eyes. Napoleon closed his own for a few moments, wishing he could have been back in New York. He had learned that the apartment down the hall was ready and was Illya’s, so he’d be moving out and was in the process of doing that now. He was going to be sorry to see him go, but he decided it would be better for his social life with Illya in his own apartment. He’d bring a date home only to find Illya up reading a book or asleep in the chair. He’d retire to the bedroom to give Napoleon and his date some privacy, but some of his dates’ eyes kept traveling wistfully to the bedroom door, much to Napoleon’s chagrin.

 

***

 

The agents grabbed Jenkins’ car in the airport parking lot, Jenkins carrying the satchel he carried on the plane with him as they loaded their suitcases in the trunk. They were to drive directly to headquarters and head straight to Waverly’s office to brief him on what they found and give their preliminary report.

Their badges applied to their jackets in Reception, the two men hurried through the corridors. After Napoleon stashed his suitcase in a closet, he excused himself and veered off towards the labs. 

“I’ll go with,” Jenkins said, guessing Napoleon’s destination, as he followed closely behind.

They located Illya in one of the smaller labs sitting at a desk surrounded by walls of computer banks and other devices with rapidly blinking lights. He was intently reading a thick stack of printout paper munching on a sandwich. He looked up and smiled as the two agents entered. “Napoleon!” he whispered, his smile fading somewhat at the sight of Jenkins. Napoleon moved to stand next to Illya.

“Hey, how’s it going, Kuryakin? How’s the voice coming?” Jenkins asked genially, now looking closely at him.

Somewhat taken aback that someone that wasn’t section VIII, Napoleon or Waverly was asking about him, Illya studied the man for a moment and decided the smile was genuine. He glanced back at Napoleon, his smile half returning.

“It is coming, thank you” he whispered in reply. “I tried talking at a normal volume, but the croaking is an assault on the ears, so I am going to stay with this for a while.”

Jenkins had a hard time making out what Illya was saying, not being used to his accent and the whisper that was hard to hear over the humming machinery. Illya stood, stretching out his back, and Jenkins noted he towered over the smaller Russian. He nodded.

“Hope it comes back soon! We’re on our way to Mister Waverly’s office and I was telling Napoleon here that I’m going to be requesting you on the first mission you’re up for.”

Illya’s expression was inscrutable, so Jenkins continued, “Don’t worry, I’m not the butthead Todd was. It’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

Napoleon nodded. If Napoleon thinks it’s going to be ok, then it will be. In the time that he’d been there in New York, Illya learned that Napoleon is a man he can trust, even taking care of him when he didn’t have to. He nodded himself and whispered that he was looking forward to it.

Napoleon spoke. “We just got in and thought we’d stop in to see you before hitting Mister Waverly’s office.”

“AND… we come bearing GIFTS!” Jenkins beamed, handing the satchel to Illya.

“Gifts..?” Illya set the bag on the desk and unzipped it, pulling out an object roughly the size and shape of a large book, like a dictionary.  He examined it, noting holes in the back where cables would be plugged in, and what looked like a small reel to reel tape.

“A tape machine…” Illya croaked pensively.

Jenkins laughed. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Illya looked up at him.

“Think you can tell us what’s on this tape and what it does?”

Turning his attention back to the device he was holding, Illya whispered, “Possibly. Could be data, could be audio. I will let you know as soon as we have something.”

Napoleon squeezed Illya’s shoulder, thanking him but they had to be going before Waverly got too irritated with them for making him wait.

The two men took their leave then hurried to Waverly’s office, forgoing the elevator to take the stairs, sprinting through the aluminum gray labyrinth that was U.N.C.L.E. headquarters to get to Waverly’s office. They paused outside the door to catch their breath to the amusement of Miss Drury. “We stopped to see Illya first.” Napoleon explained. She smiled and told them to enter whenever they are ready, he’s waiting for them.

The door slid open for them and they entered. Waverly had just hung up the phone with a scowl, his mood the blackest the agents have seen in some while.

“Aaah gentlemen,” he said, checking his watch. “So kind of you to pay me a visit. I trust your flight home was uneventful.”

“Uhh yes sir,” said Jenkins who was hoping Waverly wasn’t furious with THEM. “Sorry we’re late, we stopped off to see Illya on our way here.”

Waverly’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, particularly at his tone that was noticeably lacking in hostility. He caught sight of Napoleon’s contented expression and nodded approval.

“I take it then you handed off that tape device you told me about. Did he have anything to say?”

“Not much, sir,” Napoleon interjected. “He needs time to examine it and I’m sure they’re going to want to perform some tests then find out what’s on the tape.”

“Quite so, quite so,” Waverly said, reaching for his pipe and humidor.

The two agents delivered their preliminary report, Napoleon to help Jenkins get the final report written up for him by the end of the day. Waverly nodded sourly, “Well, you two gentlemen had better get to it then.”

The two agents glanced at each other. Jenkins cleared his throat,

“Problems, sir?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Waverly replied dourly, his pipe filled and ready to light. He held his lighter to the bowl and arched his eyebrows at his agents, so the two men left rather hurriedly. They were halfway out the door when they heard Miss Drury on the intercom informing Waverly that there was a Special Agent Murphy from the FBI on the phone wanting to talk to him. They stopped as the door slid shut behind them, gaping at each other. The last words they heard were Waverly telling her the FBI could wait and to get Vasily on the line.

Napoleon and Jenkins headed for Jenkins’ office where they collaborated on their final report for their mission. In the process of gaining access to that THRUSH facility, they had waylaid one of their couriers carrying a case holding the device they gave to Illya. The way the THRUSHies reacted when they appropriated it, you’d think it was the Holy Grail, so it must be important. Hopefully Illya and Doctor Franklin’s team can figure out what it is and what was on the tape.

Napoleon rose to go, stretching. They had been hours working on the report. It was seven-thirty and he wanted to see if Illya was ready to go, he’d snag a ride home with him.

Napoleon straightened his suit and left the office, closing the door behind him. He sighed, steeling himself against the comments he expected he was going to be hearing because of his association with Illya. The comments never came, things had gone pretty much back to normal, he was relieved to find. _Looks like Jenkins’ intel was right,_ Napoleon mused. Linda was always a good source for gossip.

He made his way into one of the labs where he thought they’d be running tests on that tape they brought back, but it wasn’t there and neither was Illya. Puzzled, he searched the other labs as well as that room they met Illya in. Nobody had seen where he had gone. Concerned, he headed out to the hallway and nearly collided with a very unhappy Doctor Franklin. Napoleon asked if he knew where Illya had gone off to.

“Mister Waverly wanted to talk to him so he’s up in his office. He has work to do and he keeps getting these interruptions, I won’t stand for it. I’m about to give Mister Waverly a piece of my mind, we need him down here.”

_We need him in Section II too_ , Napoleon thought to himself. _You’re going to have to share_.

Frowning, he headed off towards Waverly’s office to find out what was going on.

 

***

 

He passed Miss Drury’s office, and looked in. She saw him and waved him in, looking distressed. 

“What’s going on? Is Illya in there?”

“He was. An FBI agent showed up demanding to talk to him. He was in Mister Waverly’s office for almost an hour, then they called Illya in, then they had Security escort him with the FBI agent to a conference room. That was a half hour ago.”

Napoleon stared at her, stunned.

“Any chance I can talk to Mister Waverly? Was it that FBI agent I heard you telling Mister Waverly about?”

She was doubtful he’d be able to talk to Waverly, her boss had been in an exceedingly foul mood these past few days, and yes, it was that special agent, Murphy was his name. Seriously worried now, he asked again to speak to Mister Waverly. Miss Drury sat down and reached for the intercom when Waverly entered holding a folder in hand. She started and Napoleon turned to look, startled himself. Waverly regarded him mildly, not entirely surprised that he’d be there. He handed the folder to Miss Drury instructing her to type up the contents, then motioned Napoleon to come with him. 

He followed Waverly into his office and waited until his boss was seated before speaking. Waverly sighed, motioning him to have a seat near him then headed to the corner of his office where he had his liquor cabinet, pulling out a bottle of cognac and two glasses. _He’s breaking out the cognac!_ Napoleon fretted. _Must be serious._

They sipped their cognac in silence for a few moments, Napoleon kept biting his tongue to keep from questioning his boss before he was ready to speak. 

“What’s going to happen to Illya?” he asked finally, unable to wait.

Waverly was not too surprised that Napoleon knew something was up. He wasn’t one of their fastest-rising junior agents for nothing.

“He’s going to come to work and continue to be the excellent U.N.C.L.E. agent I expect him to be. Yes, the FBI is concerned about a Russian naval intelligence officer on our soil, but I’m not letting him go. If they try to arrest him, his commanding officer has promised to raise a stink that would rise to the United Nations and I intend to utilize my government contacts to the fullest. Mister Kuryakin isn’t going anywhere..”

Napoleon, confused, “I heard the FBI was in here wanting to talk to him. What’s their problem, wasn’t he cleared to work here beforehand?”

Waverly sniffed his cognac and took another sip. “Oh yes, the FBI has problems with him being here. I had cleared it with State before he even arrived. This Special Agent Murphy is an ambitious sort. He saw that there was a Soviet naval intelligence officer working here on our own soil and thought that we had a spy in our midst. I conferenced in Mister Kuryakin’s commanding officer and let them sort it out, but he still wanted to talk to Mister Kuryakin, who agreed to talk to him. I think he’s satisfied. He left about fifteen minutes ago. I have spoken to Special Agent Murphy's superiors about this and I expect we have heard the last of him.” He stole a glance at his worried agent.

Napoleon looked at his watch, it was going on eight thirty. “I wonder where he is now.”

“He's no doubt in the lab.” Napoleon’s communicator started beeping. “Or looking for you,” Waverly responded dryly.

 

***

 

With great relief, Napoleon tossed his suitcase into the back seat and climbed into the car with Illya, who drove off towards their apartments. Illya informed him that the furniture he had ordered was delivered to the apartment down the hall from him and he was getting settled in. He informed Napoleon that he had lost a roommate, but he guessed he would adjust. Napoleon chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder telling him any time he needed a place to crash, his apartment was always open. 

Illya shot him a quizzical look. Napoleon caught the look and laughed. “Crash. As in sleep, spend the night, stay for a while. You know.”

“Ah, yes yes yes, thank you. I have not heard that expression before.”

Illya was happy Napoleon was home, he had missed his new friend. Napoleon was happy to BE home, he was gone for a week and missed his Russian friend. Illya sure was one unique individual and he totally enjoyed his company, sarcasm included.

“So you going to show me your apartment? How do you like it?”

“Is big. I don’t have a lot of furniture, but I have what I need. Do you want to see it?”

“Of course! Sure, I’d love to.” He was pleased, now he wouldn’t have to worry about the dates he brings home being more interested in his friend.

After parking the car, the friends walked into the building out of the cold early winter night and climbed the stairs to their floor, Illya unlocking the door to his new home. He entered and bid Napoleon welcome and feel free to look around. 

Napoleon stepped in, placing his suitcase at the threshold, Illya closing the door behind him. The apartment was laid out quite closely to Napoleon’s but the furnishing was very different. The furnishings were spare with little ornamentation. The necessities were were there, chair, couch, lamps, coffee and end tables… not much else. His apartment was fitted with built in book shelves that had a few books in it with more on the way according to Illya. He had already received shipments from Berlin and he was expecting a shipment or three from Murmansk, mostly books and clothes. Napoleon nodded and noted the small television next to the cheap record player on a metal stand that had a rack that contained albums of classical and Russian music Napoleon hadn’t heard of. The apartment was tasteful, but spare and very tidy.

“Would you like some tea?” Illya offered, which Napoleon gratefully accepted. The water was set to boiling as Napoleon wandered to the bathroom and bedroom, which were equally sparsely decorated. He was in the bedroom looking out the window to check the view where he spied a small rough clay object on the night stand next to the bed. In it was embedded the imprint of a hand made by a small child. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands smiling fondly. It was one of those childish things that young kids make out of clay for their parents with their little palm print impressed in it, then fired in a kiln for posterity. He felt himself choking up when a sudden sneeze caused him to lose his grip on it, threatening to crash it on the floor. In a panic, he lunged for it and managed to at least cushion its fall with his foot before it hit. It skittered under the bed, and feeling like he was now seriously invading Illya’s privacy, he fell to his knees and reached under to find the keepsake to place it back on the nightstand where he found it.

The back of his hand bumped something coarse and rather heavy before he reached the keepsake. Relieved, he found that it was undamaged, so he gingerly placed it back in its place on the night stand. Unable to resist, he bent and lifted the bedspread and found a stack of record albums. He pulled them out, maybe a dozen of them, all jazz. Dave Brubeck’s Time Out, Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue, John Coltrane, Charles Mingus… Cannonball Adderly? He shook his head and wondered why they’d be under his bed and not with his record player. He lifted the stack and headed out to the living room to put them away when he saw Illya in the doorway with a look of horror on his face.

“Put them back,” he said simply.

Confused, Napoleon motioned with the records, “They should be with the record player, why are they under the bed?” 

“Please put them back,” Illya pleaded in a whisper, a request with which Napoleon regretfully complied.

“Teas is ready. Come.”

Napoleon followed him to the living room where he had a samovar set up with cups, saucers with milk and sugar should the guest require any. Illya was prepared with cookies, which he had arranged on a plate. Napoleon was impressed.

“Good host,” he said, biting into a jam-filled cookie, following it up with a sip of tea which he found to be delicious. He felt suddenly inexplicably shy, being in a new friend’s home with customs he wasn’t familiar with, particularly since he nearly demolished a cherished keepsake. Illya didn’t seem at all inclined to want to talk about the record albums under his bed, so Napoleon didn’t press the issue.

Illya sipped his own tea, grateful for the taste of home. 

Napoleon flushed, “Sorry about the albums. I’ve never known anyone with a perfectly good stand to store them in to keep them under their bed.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you,” Illya whispered.

“You didn’t yell. You just whispered almost loudly,” Napoleon retorted with a mouth full of cookie. Illya chuckled.

“I invited you to look around, but I didn’t expect you to look under the bed. You took me rather literally, don’t you think?” Illya whispered with a smirk.

Ashamed, Napoleon told him about the keepsake in the bedroom and its misadventure on the floor, apologizing profusely. Illya watched him, appreciating his honesty.

“I have dropped that so many times,” he admitted, reaching for a cookie. “I do not think anything can break it. Typical Russian construction.”

Napoleon put down his cup and brushed his hands off over the napkin on the coffee table, looking at his friend curiously. There was something on Illya’s mind.

“Is everything ok?”

Illya thought for a moment. “I had a chat with special agent from the FBI this afternoon. They are concerned about a Russian intelligence officer here in the United States, they think I might be spying on the country. That is their job to be concerned and things were not much different in Germany. i understand and would do the same thing if I was in their position. The truth is,” he hesitated, “I was a spy.”

Napoleon froze.

“I spied on Western Europe, and Asia. Those were the regions where I was assigned.” Illya went on. “That was my job. Yes, I was a spy, that’s what intelligence operatives do, isn’t it?”

Napoleon had to admit it was true.

“I swore an oath to protect my country. My people. I continue to do that. But when I joined U.N.C.L.E. I swore another oath. I swore an oath to protect ALL people; Russian, Polish, British, German, American, all people. I take that very seriously and I protect America as zealously as I protect Russia. I see no conflict in this. I work to protect people and nations, not undermine or destroy them. Do you understand?”

“You don’t have to convince me,” Napoleon answered with great affection. He smiled. “You saved thousands of American lives a few weeks ago,” he pointed out. 

Illya returned the smile, nodding. “I do have concern though,” he said. “I have enjoyed years of study in France and England and then two years living in Germany working for U.N.C.L.E. and now the United States. If the Stalinists regain control of Russia, and it looks like they might, I could be under suspicion of being corrupted by the West and subject to arrest followed by imprisonment, exile or execution. At this point, I can’t afford to even appear to be ‘corrupted’ by Western influence. Who knows how political winds might shift at home.” He glanced towards the bedroom.

“So… suspicion from the American government and potential suspicion from the Russian government….”

“Something like that.” Illya responded with a wry smile.

“That’s awful!”

“That’s life, my friend.”


	2. We thought we captured something good

“Call me Mike.”

Illya turned to glance at the tall, muscular man standing at his elbow in lab three. 

“Ok. Mike,” he half smiled at him. “Is everything ok?”

Ever since he and Napoleon returned from Turkey and he actually made an attempt to get to know Illya, Mike Jenkins found himself taking a long time in the morning to find the right tie while getting ready for work. He couldn’t tell Illya that, and he couldn’t tell him that he enjoyed the clean smell of soap that emanated from Illya’s body and hair. One had to get pretty close to him to really notice, since the Russian didn’t use any kind of cologne, but one could catch a faint whiff when he passed in the corridor. He decided it was much more pleasant up close. He wouldn’t be able to tell him or anyone else about his pulse quickening at the sight of the slight, compact, baby-faced young Russian with the shaggy golden hair and blue eyes that hinted at a depth of soul that could only be guessed at. _I have to work with him, dammit, I can’t be doing this!_

Jenkins shook himself mentally, reminding himself to breathe, embarrassed to realize that he was blushing. “Yeah, fine,” he said breezily, clearing his throat. “I just had an especially spicy breakfast this morning.”

“Oh. That will do it,” Illya nodded, getting back to the console with the tape already loaded. “That device you brought back plays audio only”

“Oh? Any idea what’s on the tape then?”

Illya pressed the “PLAY” button on the console and after a few seconds’ hiss, there was the sound of protracted applause as in an auditorium.  The two men listened as a hush came over the crowd then a piano began playing, shortly joined by an orchestra. Jenkins was not a fan of classical music so he shrugged, the THRUSHie they took this from must have been a music lover. He noted Illya’s rapt attention to the piece that was being played which was soon followed by an expression of shocked recognition.

“I KNOW THIS!” Illya croaked.  He was right to confine himself to a whisper, Jenkins noted ruefully, his voice WAS an assault on the ears.

“This is Igor Stoyanovitch, Russian master pianist, playing with the Paris symphony in Paris, 1953.  Someone must have recorded the performance.”

Jenkins looked at him quizzically, “Huh?  How can you tell?”

“I was there, at that performance,” Illya said in awe. 

“How can you tell?” Jenkins asked, totally confused now.

At that moment, the door to the lab hissed open to admit Waverly with Napoleon close behind.  They moved to where the agents were standing, listening to the music.  Waverly’s eyes widened.  

“Isn’t that Igor Stoyanovitch?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” whispered Illya, “In Paris.”

“April fourteenth, 1953,” completed Waverly. “I was at that particular performance.”

“Me too!” exclaimed Illya, croaking again. “He was exquisite!”

“Indeed. A magnificent performance of Prokofiev’s Symphony No 6. This is what was on that tape then?”

“Yes sir. Someone at that particular satrap was a music lover and had excellent taste.”

Jenkins and Napoleon exchanged glances and shrugged.

“I believe we will need to hold on to this particular tape, Mister Kuryakin.  Excellent find, Mister Jenkins and Mister Solo. It appears you didn’t obtain anything to enhance the safety of the world, but it’s a brilliant find all the same.”  He turned to Illya, “Please make a copy of that for me and keep the original in the archives.” He turned to go, then having a thought, he turned back. “Oh, and make a copy for yourself if you like.  This is a rare find!”

Illya rewound the tape happily as Waverly departed, thinking he was now going to have to find a player for his copy of the tape.

Jenkins was shaking his head. _Here we thought we captured something GOOD_.  He said his farewells and departed, leaving Illya and Napoleon in the lab.

“I need a tape player,” Illya stated wistfully. 

“You might try the pawn shops,” Napoleon offered helpfully.

“Pawn shops?  What are those?”

“When people need money, they take stuff there and sell them, sort of,” Napoleon answered, scratching his ear.  “It’s like collateral for a loan.  The shop will hold it for a period of time for the person to come back with the money and get their property back.  If they don’t return, the pawn broker, as they’re called, sells it.  You can get some good stuff fairly cheaply there.”

“Interesting. I could do that,” Illya mused.  “It might be fun to make one though.  I’ll have to think about this,” as he loaded up a tape in the second deck to record the copy for Waverly, readying a second tape for his own copy.

 

***

 

As much as he hated being around people, Jackson forced himself outside into the frigid early winter air. There wasn’t that much traffic this time of day, to his relief.  He turned right and headed to the diner on the corner, scanning the area for a tail. Not finding anything suspicious, he entered and found his booth where he could sit and watch the front door and scan the street through the window.

The waitress named Margaret was on duty this morning as she is almost every day.  He had been eating his breakfast there daily since he retired and was beyond putting on a friendly face.  She placed the coffee on the table in front of him with the cream that she knew he took in his coffee.

“The usual, Mister Jackson?” she asked pleasantly.  

He looked up at the young lady and nearly smiled despite himself. She was young and shapely, darker skinned than he was and she wore her hair in a short, white people style like most women do.  No matter what kind of mood he was in when he came in, she was always eager to serve him and even shared a funny story or two that actually made him laugh.  He found himself starting to relax around her, but experience cautioned himself to be wary.  He liked her a lot, but you can’t trust anyone.

“Yes, the usual will be fine.” Then he smiled, “Thank you, Margaret.”

Margaret blushed, “You can call me Maggie.  Everyone else does,” she said, then hurried to put in the order for the french toast, scrambled eggs and bacon he ate every morning.  Jackson had been coming in for a year now and try as she did to get his interest, nothing seemed to work.  _He’s hurting somehow and I want to help. He’s terribly attractive too, if he would only let me take care of him…_ , she thought to herself as she readied his check.

She looked up as a young man entered, smiled and took a seat at the counter near the door.  She grabbed a menu, studying this newcomer she hadn’t seen before.  He was a tallish white guy, very slim, with blue eyes and sandy hair that fell over his forehead.  He smiled brightly at her in greeting, a very pleasant smile, she decided.  He ordered scrambled eggs and toast with tea with a very proper English accent.  She left to put in his order and picked up Jackson’sl order to deliver to his table and stopped short to see him glaring suspiciously at the man who had just entered.  The newcomer returned his look mildly, then grinned.

“Willis!  Fancy meeting you here, how have you been, mate?  It’s been ages!”

“Slate,” he responded curtly, still watching him closely and turning to glance behind him  for any compatriots who might think to come in through the kitchen. “What are you doing here? This isn’t your normal stomping grounds.”

Mark Slate rose and moved towards Jackson’s booth asking if he could join him. “I’m not big on eating alone.  If that’s ok with you, that is. I was passing through on my way to Queens to talk to some folks, got hungry and thought I’d grab a bite.”

Jackson, still suspicious, shrugged and motioned to the seat across from him.  Slate turned to Maggie with raised eyebrows who nodded.  He didn’t remember much about his time with U.N.C.L.E. thanks to his untraining, but he remember Mark Slate.  He always liked him and even worked with him on a number of occasions.  He found him utterly dependable, funny and a complete charmer. In fact Slate was his favorite partner of all the youngsters coming up, but now…  _What is he up to now and why is he here?_

“You retired, what? A year ago?  How has life been treating you, mate?” Slate began pleasantly as Jackson dug into his breakfast.

Shrug. “It’s been fine. Just fine,” Jackson muttered while shoveling his french toast into his face, watching Slate. “You still with ‘you know who?’ “ 

Slate accepted the tea with thanks from Maggie and dipped the bag for it to steep, “As a matter of fact, I am.  Not much has changed.  Did you hear about Dunham?”

“I don’t hear shit,” Jackson muttered indifferently, raising his empty cup for a refill. “What’d the prick do now?”

“Got himself fired and arrested for assaulting a new agent,” Slate told him as his breakfast was delivered. “Nearly killed the kid too.”

Jackson’s brow furrowed, “Yeah, that sounds like him.  Don’t tell me, the kid was better than he was,” to which Slate nodded. “Showed him up?  Caught him in his lies to Waverly?”  

Slate nodded again.  “Caught and shown the door.”

“Fuckin’ prick. That’s what happens when a motherfucker isn’t too competent but over competitive,” Jackson snorted. “I take it the kid’s ok.”

“Yeah, he’ll be fine. He's pretty highly educated, so they got him working with the science division while he recovers.”  He finished his breakfast, “Hey, a bunch of us are getting together for bowling and drinks tomorrow night, care to join us? We can catch up, it’ll be fun. Almost like old times.”

Jackson finished his breakfast, chugging down the last of his coffee, then shook his head. “So, what ARE you doing here, Slate?  Where the fuck you coming from that you pass through the Bronx on your way to fuckin’ Queens?”

Slate stayed calm, “I have a lot of errands to run today,” he said pleasantly. “I’m coming from Morningside Heights, so it’s not out of my way.  I don’t have to be at work till this afternoon so thought I’d stop in for breakfast.  Is everything ok?” He was looking concerned now, looking archly at Jackson’s bruised jaw and swollen eye.

Jackson was growing more agitated, now U.N.C.L.E. was after him too. It wasn’t just THRUSH! _What does he WANT from me?_ “EVERYTHING IS JUST FINE, I TOLD YOU” he found himself shouting, hands balled into fists.  He rose abruptly from the booth and loomed over Slate threateningly.  

Slate raised his hands, “I’m sorry, truly I am,” he said carefully. “I stopped in for breakfast and was happy to see you again, thought we could catch up. I didn’t mean…”

“YOU JUST KEEP AWAY FROM ME, ALL OF YOU! DON’T COME BACK!” Jackson was screaming now, bringing the cook over to stand protectively next to Maggie.  Jackson had a knife in his hand, pointing it threateningly at Slate, who watched him levelly. Jackson calmed down, fighting the panic and rage that was threatening to overwhelm him.  He sheathed the knife and ran from the diner, turning right and out of sight.

“I’m callin’ the cops,” declared Spike the cook as he picked up the phone. “We don’t want no trouble here.”

“No don’t do that,” Slate said quickly. “It’s all right, he doesn’t need the police involved.”

“What was that all about?” Maggie asked, shaken, as Spike hung up the phone. “It looked like you two knew each other. Why would he do that?”

“We did know each other,” Slate admitted, standing and pulling out his wallet. “We worked together for a couple of years. He’s not himself.”  He pulled some bills out of his wallet and paid for both meals, apologized for the disturbance and left the diner. 

Once outside, he looked around and saw no sign of Jackson or anyone else in the immediate area. With a sigh, he pulled out his cigarette pack communicator and opened channel D.

 

***

 

Waverly tossed a file on the rotating table in his office and gave it a turn to place it in front of the agents sitting a few seats away from him.  Jenkins opened it and began perusing its contents.  

Waverly spoke. “You gentlemen remember Willis Jackson, do you not?”

“I sure do!  Good man,” Jenkins replied. 

“He retired last year,” stated Napoleon.

“Indeed he did,” Waverly confirmed, loading his pipe. “He has been getting into some trouble these last few months.  He has a few friends left who knew about his working for U.N.C.L.E. who have contacted us expressing concern about his mental state.  He has been untrained as part of his retirement, but he’s lost none of his combat skills.  He has grown increasingly paranoid and has most recently turned to violence.”

Jenkins shook his head, shocked.  Jackson didn’t seem like the kind of man who would crack like that.  In fact, U.N.C.L.E. tried to weed out those who showed those signs of weakness.  It was unbelievable.

“We need to bring him in, gentlemen. We have folks here who can help him and new methods for treating his type of disorder, but we can’t get close enough to him, and by all reports he’s refusing any offers of help from his friends.  Mister Slate caught up with him this morning and managed to talk to him for a few minutes before Mister Jackson pulled a knife on him and ran out of the establishment they were in.  We need to catch him before he kills someone or gets seriously hurt himself.  Mister Jenkins, I’m giving it to you and Mister Solo to find him and bring him in.”

Jenkins ran his hand over his head, then rubbed the back of his neck, grimacing, “Will and Slate always got along.  They worked a number of assignments together. If HE couldn’t get through to him, how could I?”

“He’s not going to come willingly,” Napoleon agreed.

“No he’s not,” admitted Jenkins.  “Mister Waverly, do you think Kuryakin is healed enough to join me?  If Wills is running from U.N.C.L.E. agents, it might be easier if I had someone with me that he didn’t know.”

Waverly was dubious, as was Napoleon, but they had to admit Jenkins was right.  They did need someone who Jackson didn’t know if they were going to catch him and even with his voice not completely returned he can still handle himself.  Finally Waverly punched a key on his console and asked Miss Drury to summon Illya to the office.

Illya arrived a few minutes later and was greeted by Jenkin’s smile as he slid the folder over in front of him as he sat next to him. Waverly filled him in.

“Willis Jackson, one of our top operatives, retired just last November,” he started. “He was less than a month away from his fortieth birthday and retirement when he and his parter were sent on one last assignment, this time to Morocco. THRUSH was using a satrap there to stockpile a hallucinogenic drug they’d developed that would have been used to incapacitate a population, military, or police force in order to subjugate them. it was Messers Jackson and Eidlin’s job to find it, destroy the stockpile and the satrap.”

“But they were caught”, Jenkins continued.  “THRUSH used the drugs on Jackson and Eidlin to try to extract information from them.  And probably to have fun with them,” he almost snarled. “Eidlin was tortured to death in front of Jackson and they were about to begin on him when we were able to get to them.  Jackson was hospitalized for a month and even after he retired, he was to keep his appointments with an U.N.C.L.E. psychiatrist for treatment.”

“That lasted for seven months,” Waverly went on. “Then something happened and he dropped out sight.  He’s been keeping a low profile until recently when we began receiving reports of his assaulting people around the city, mostly centered around the Bronx.  Friends of his have contacted us with concerns about his mental health.  They tell us he hasn’t been sleeping, his behavior has gotten increasingly erratic.  Paranoid, he thinks THRUSH is chasing him and unfortunately, now he fears U.N.C.L.E. chasing him as well.”

Napoleon added “The doctors believe that there are lingering if not permanent effects from that hallucinogen he was given.  We also don’t know exactly what was done to them.  Eidlin was a dear friend of Jackson’s, and having to watch helplessly as his friend was tortured to death has to be a factor.”

Illya suppressed a shudder.  He had witnessed such cruelty on the part of the Nazis and it never failed to sicken him.  _This man needs help and needs it now._   He nodded gravely and studied the file on Jackson, learning as much about the man as he could.

“We don’t expect this to be a dangerous assignment,” Waverly told him.  “After what happened to Mister Jackson, we stopped sending people on such dangerous assignments so close to their retirement. Mister Slate reported that he was fairly lucid while taking to him but got agitated towards the end of their conversation, so he may have periods where he is nearly himself.”

“No, you save those dangerous assignments for the younger agents,” Jenkins concluded with a wink.

“Precisely.  Your assignment, bring in Mister Jackson for treatment.  Unhurt.  But remember, he is a trained U.N.C.L.E. agent and even though his memories of U.N.C.L.E. operations, policies and procedures have been wiped, he is still a combat trained veteran.”

 

***

 

The meeting in Waverly’s office concluded, Jenkins hurried to his office and closed the door behind him. He had instantly regretted putting Illya up for the assignment, but there was no question that he was going to be needed. He sighed. There were few people he was attracted to but he found he couldn’t stop thinking about Illya. _What is it about this Russian kid? He’s far too young for me, but there’s something about him. He seems older somehow._ He doubted Illya would be amenable to the attentions he found himself wanting to give him, but to his regret, he had grown used to that. Outside a small circle of very close friends, he could not even breathe his inclinations. All his life he was never interested in girls and never thought a thing of it. In college and the Marines, he never had time for romance. He never gave himself time, but in the last four or five years, the few people he found himself interested in were men.

He had barely paid attention when he was first introduced to Illya in Waverly’s office and now he was kicking himself.

He knew it was only a matter of time before Illya would have to go back into the field and he found himself hating the thought. He realized he totally understood Napoleon’s protective instinct towards Illya and briefly wondered if it was for the same reason as his own, but dismissed the notion. Illya just seemed to inspire that in some people. Judging from the account he read in Napoleon’s report on the Malloy incident, the Russian is a savage when he needs to be, so he can obviously take care of himself. He hoped so.

Still, he had to be sure. He checked his watch, then dialed a number in Berlin to talk to his old friend Emil Richter - IF he hasn’t retired yet. Emil is a man who he trusted completely, the two men had shared everything about themselves and more, so they had a deep rapport. The call was answered on the fifth ring with a sleepy “Hallo?”

“Hallo, Emil. It’s Mike, I’m sorry did I wake you?”

“Ja, but it is ok. It is great to hear from you, Mike. How is everything?”

“Everything is fine, hope all is well with you too! Sorry to wake you, but, aaah, I have some questions and it can’t wait. I promise I’ll keep this brief.”

“For you, old friend, it is no trouble. What do you need?”

Jenkins hesitated. He cleared his throat, “Are you familiar with Illya Kuryakin?”

Richter barked a laugh, “Of COURSE! When are you people in New York sending him back? He is greatly missed!”

Jenkins laughed himself, “Sorry buddy, we’re keeping him.”

“Shit. Well I had to try.” Richter chuckled. “Is he ok? We heard about what happened on his first time out in the United States. Dunham managed to hide it well, but he really was a fuck up. We tried to get Illya back as soon as we heard, but Waverly decided to get stubborn. I heard the Soviets were furious, how Waverly calmed them down we’ll never know.”

“Yeah. Well… I just wanted to know… uuhhh…  in the two years he worked in Berlin, did he ah, do any infiltration work? You know, go undercover on any of the jobs he worked there?”

“Ja, he sure did! He was fresh out of Survival School and was already a pro. He taught US a thing or two,” Richter chortled affectionately, the reason for Jenkins’ concern dawning on him.  “I see you’ve had a chance to talk to him,” he said fondly, completely understanding. “We are convinced that Russia was bragging when they donated his services to U.N.C.L.E.,” he said. More seriously, “If Illya is an example of the calibre of people the Russians have working in their intelligence operations, we may be in big trouble. BUT… he is ours now. And just like any agent, he can get in over his head. If Mister Waverly is sending him into the field for infiltration work, I do hope he is going to have backup. Nobody should go undercover without backup and support.”  Jenkins assured him he would.

Richter went on, “Good. Look, he is very young, but don’t let that fool you. He grew up in Ukraine and survived not only famine, the Nazi invasion and occupation but the Red Army’s liberation as well. He learned how to survive everything at a very early age and if it is something he hasn’t done before, he will learn it fast. He has a sharp, brilliant mind and he’s ruthless. Never get into a fight with him, my friend, because he is a savage. We are just very happy he is OUR savage. Pray that Russia does not demand his return.”

The two friends chatted for a few minutes more, promising to meet up once they were both retired. Jenkins had plans of traveling to Germany and swore he would look him up so they could get together again for bratz and beer. 

Jenkins hung up feeling much better.


	3. It's not me

Mike Jenkins looked up from his notebook and checked his watch for the third time that hour while perched in his chair in lab three at the bench in the middle of the room. He had loaded the tape he and Napoleon had appropriated from THRUSH into the deck and was listening to the concert that so entranced Illya. Mister Waverly loved it too, but even with that, he would feel closer to Illya if he could find the same enjoyment from the piece as the young Russian did. He wasn’t feeling it yet, regretting his lack in music education, but he wasn’t going to stop trying.

He was to meet with Illya and Napoleon at eight am in the lab, Doctor Franklin to provide some added tools to aid Illya in capturing Jackson. After a fitful night’s sleep, Jenkins decided to just get up and drive in early - maybe a little TOO early. He sighed when he realized he had gotten there at seven am, but having all of his reports up to date, he decided to wait in the lab.

He took to his favorite pastime of doodling to pass the time. He was working on what was supposed to be a quick one that was turning into something quite detailed. He smiled as he shaded in the details of the torso, working on getting the curve of the buttocks just right…

“Is that Illya?”

The voice startled him and red-faced, he slammed the notebook shut. He looked up to see Napoleon staring at him with a bemused smile on his face. I didn’t hear him come in, where the hell did he come from??

“Let me see!” he said, and Mike, busted, opened the book and turned it to show it to him. It was a full-figure cartoon of Illya standing with back to the viewer, wearing black slacks and turtleneck with shoulder holster, his upper torso turned slightly with the head and eyes looking over his shoulder at the viewer with a sly ‘don’t fuck with me’ expression on his face. Napoleon admired the handiwork, “I didn’t know you were an artist,” he said with admiration. “That’s a very good likeness. Do you have any of me in there?”

Mike smirked as he put down his pencil, “They’re back at home, if I still have them. Just something I do to pass the time. I tried to draw Duhnam once, but it was hard enough to look at that asshole in real life, so I drew his face on the ass end of a horse.”

Napoleon laughed. “I wanted to tell you Illya’s almost ready. His voice is still rough, but he says it will fit in with his cover.”

Illya had a relayed a plan that took some convincing, but Napoleon and Jenkins had to agree would be a good approach. The more he thought about it, the more Jenkins knew this would be the only way to get close enough to Jackson to bring him in without anyone getting hurt in the process. 

Jenkins shook his head in admiration, “Commendable. The doctor cleared him to work, we just have to trust her judgement.”

“Yeah,” Napoleon agreed. “Illya’s adamant that he is ready. I can’t tell if he’s overeager or just very aware of what he’s capable of. I’m inclined to think the latter.”

“No shit,” agreed Jenkins as Doctor Franklin entered carrying a small case. 

“Where’s Illya?” he asked impatiently.

“Right here,” came the hoarse voice as Illya quickly entered the room. 

The three men turned to look as the bedraggled, filthy young man dressed in ragged clothes entered the lab and strode up to them. Illya stopped for a moment and smiled at the music that was playing, which Jenkins had forgotten about. He reached over and shut it off.

It took a few moments for the fragrance to reach their noses. Napoleon wrinkled his and stepped back distastefully. Franklin kept his distance and Jenkins found himself recoiling.

“It’s not me, it’s the clothes,” Illya explained. “Too much?”

“Maybe a little,” shuddered Franklin.

Shaking his head, Franklin pulled out a small pin in the shape of a dolphin that Illya affixed to the collar of the flannel shirt he wore under the ragged jacket. “This is a new design,” he said. “It will transmit your voice and all the sounds around you to a distance of a mile.”

“We haven’t used pins before, have we?” asked Napoleon.

“Nope,” replied Jenkins, adjusting Illya’s collar so the jacket hid the pin. “Jackson isn’t likely to know what this is, but he may be suspicious if he sees it.”

“Last but not least,” Franklin pulled out a ring with a thick banded ring. From the palm side, he gingerly pulled out a needle, explaining that it could deliver a powerful sedative, should he need it.

As Illya was putting on the ring, Waverly entered to check on things. 

“We’re all set, sir,” Jenkins assured him.

Waverly nodded with approval, “Good. Remember gentlemen, we’re to bring him in unharmed. By all accounts he won’t listen to reason, and he’s been known to be violent. Good luck. And gentlemen, do try to be careful”

“Yes sir,” the agents replied.

***

Hands shoved deep in pockets against the frigid New York wind, Illya trudged his way through the Bronx to Jackson’s last known address. He turned back and saw the rental car with two men in it parked a couple blocks away.

“Can you hear me?”

Headlights flashed. Satisfied, Illya turned and continued walking, hunched over. He rounded the corner and traversed the block, finding the diner where Mark Slate reported seeing Jackson. He stopped outside the door and looked around, first one way, then the other. Nodding with satisfaction, he entered.

There was a counter with stools along the right, booths along the windowed wall to the left. It was nearing the end of the breakfast time in the city, so there were only a few people in there and they were getting ready to leave. Illya studied them for a moment then slid onto a stool, pulling his hands from pockets and blowing on them. A pretty young negro lady behind the counter approached him with a smile and presented him with a menu. 

“Coffee?”

Illya’s head jerked up sharply, “WHAT?”

She started, her smile fading then returning. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Did you want coffee?”

Illya wiped his forehead and answered hoarsely, “Da. Yes coffee…. um…. what is word… please. Sorry, my English not so good.”

***

Jenkins snickered in the car listening to Illya with the waitress. “I imagine his English was that shitty at some point, don’t you think?”

Napoleon grinned, “I’m starting to think he spoke it nearly perfectly as soon as he learned it.”

“You’re probably right,” Jenkins chortled, then stopped as the voices continued.

***

The waitress had placed a cup and saucer on the counter in front of Illya and filled it with coffee from the pot she brought with her.

“Did you want something to eat? You can still get breakfast, but we’ll be switching to the lunch menu in about a half hour.”

Illya stared at the menu, agonizing. “I can’t read this,” he almost wailed, finally tossing it aside then began weeping.

“Hey, hey, that’s ok honey. I can help you with it. What’s your name? I’m Margaret, but everyone calls me Maggie.”

Watery blue eyes rose to meet large, kind, brown eyes. “V-V-Vadim,” Illya stuttered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Vadim Pedorin.”

“Well, Vadim Pedorin, I’m very happy to meet you. What would you like for breakfast? Eggs? You can have them poached, fried, or scrambled. We have pancakes and french toast too, and if you’re really adventurous, Spike here can whip up a pretty mean omelette.” 

Illya looked around nervously then back at Maggie, “Fried? 

Maggie pointed to the fryer behind her. Spike had come out of the back wiping his hands on his apron looking at Illya curiously. He answered dryly, “Yeah, crack the egg over the fryer and let it cook. Still looks like an egg when it’s done,”

“Fried yes. Good,” Illya declared, fidgeting, looking around nervously.

“Let me get you some toast with that, Maggie smiled and left to complete his order, grateful to leave the orbit of the fetid smell emanating from the distressed young man.

Illya sat hunched over the counter, casting furtive glances at the door, raising the cup to his lips with shaking hands. Spike cracked the eggs on the fryer and leaned over to Maggie whispering, “Man, this white boy got some problems. Let’s feed this sucker and get him outta here. Don’t want a repeat of yesterday.”

“Oh hush, it’ll be fine,” Maggie assured him, loading bread into the toaster, pushing down on the handle. “He sounds Russian.” She cocked her head slightly to examine the nervous customer, “He LOOKS slavic, don’t you think?”

Spike went back to his cooking, muttering sullenly, “Shit, they all look alike to me.”

Maggie had set the plate of food down in front of Illya when the door opened. She looked up and smiled broadly. “Good morning!”

The newcomer looked around and took his usual booth. Maggie hurried to get the coffee and cream. Illya picked up his fork and began eating. He turned and looked suspiciously at the newcomer and found it was Jackson. Spike and Maggie were both out of earshot, so he said in a low voice between bites, “Jackson.”

He looked surreptitiously at Jackson and turned quickly back when Jackson saw him. He hunched further down over the counter and continued eating. He was starving and would have ordered two of these breakfasts if he had the time. He tried to listen to the conversation Jackson was having with Maggie, but they kept their voices low. He chanced another glance back and found Jackson still looking at him. He dropped his fork and with shaking hand, sipped his coffee, looking wildly to the door. Jackson’s file said he was paranoid and occasionally violent, but it said much more about the man, information Illya hoped was still true because he used that for the plan he formulated to bring him in peacefully. He jumped when Maggie returned with the pot to refill his coffee. 

Maggie drew back, startled, but poured and hoped he wouldn’t linger. This strange, smelly, slavic-looking white guy with the thick accent was making her nervous and Jackson was paying a lot of attention to him. She was still unnerved about Jackson’s pulling a knife on that English guy and she was hoping Spike stayed close to the telephone in case the police were needed. He had his cooking knives but she didn’t want him to have to use them.

Jackson was watching Illya from his booth, observing him closely. The young man was troubled, jumpy. This boy’s in bad shape, he thought. He could see a bit of himself in the tow-headed white boy at the counter. The kid was terrified of something which piqued his native curiosity. What’s his game? Someone after him too? 

“Hey. Kid,” he called out.

Illya gave a furtive look over his shoulder at him.

“Yeah, you. Want some company? Come over here and sit with me.” A slow smile spread across his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “I don’t bite.” He motioned towards the seat in the booth opposite him. He kept his eyes scanning from door to sidewalk outside the windows.

Illya fidgeted some more and, watching the door, He picked up his plate and cup and scurried over to Jackson’s booth and sat quickly, peering out the window to the street. He tried to keep an eye on the door, but it was at his back, which was a problem. He hunched over his plate to keep his face out of sight of people on the street. Jackson called for more coffee.

“What’s your story, kid? Don’t worry, I got yer back. Someone comes in I don’t like, I’ll let you know. Someone after ya?”

Illya struggled to compose himself. He gestured to Jackson to lean in and hissed hoarsely, “KGB. Police. I am not supposed to be here…” he looked around frantically. “I left Soviet Union, KGB wants me back. Police want to send me back. I won’t. I CAN’T! I AM NOT TRAITOR. THEY WILL SEND ME TO GULAG!” He croaked and started up from the booth in a panic, but a brown hand grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

Jackson’s own constant state of paranoia, rage and grief had abated a bit at the sight of the panicking young waif across from him. He found himself trying to calm him, acutely aware of Maggie and Spike behind the counter watching them. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Somehow, he felt different. He didn’t understand why or how, but he felt a half-remembered sensation that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. This was a feeling he vaguely remembered from his past, but it felt as foreign to him now as this young, terrified Russian.

“Relax. Nobody’s gonna find you here. Relax. Here, have more coffee. Boy… you need a shower” he exclaimed, leaning back wrinkling his nose. “Where do you live? Can I take you there? Maybe change your clothes? Shower? Damn, boy!”

***

Napoleon and Jenkins listened to the conversation with admiration.

“Shit, he was right!” Jenkins crowed in the car from three blocks away.

“He’s good,” Napoleon agreed, grinning. “I wish we could see him, but from the sounds of things, Illya’s more paranoid than Willis and it ignited his protective nature.”

Jenkins shook his head, “Yeah, I can retire in the confidence that the future of U.N.C.L.E. is in good hands,” he said. Then wistfully, “We’re lucky to have him.”

Napoleon looked at him then smiled, nodding.

***

Jackson noted that his efforts were doing little to calm the young man, but he was grateful for whatever progress he could make. He found himself watching the door and the street through the window for anyone approaching, not only for for his own sake but for the kid’s as well. Maggie had approached the table to warm up her customers’ coffees when the door opened and four men walked in. The men ignored Maggie’s greeting and fixed their eyes on Jackson.

Maggie recoiled in fear, Spike stepping protectively from around the counter, “Can we help you gentlemen?”

The men ignored him and headed straight for Jackson’s booth. Illya turned, and rose with Jackson, feigning panic to keep his cover, but Jackson shoved him roughly back into his seat then stepped between Maggie and the newcomers.

One of the men, apparently the leader, spoke, “Hello, Jackson, remember us?”


	4. Call it in, kid

“SHIT!” exploded Jenkins as he threw open the car door, Napoleon following suit. Hearts pounding, they exited the car to sprint the three blocks to the diner. 

“Illya’s going to have to blow his cover!” Napoleon exclaimed, Jenkins nodding in agreement.

***

Jackson froze with an expression of pure terror on his face, replaced quickly with rage. Illya, furious, kept up the wild-eyed terror act while watching closely, waiting for the time to act.

Fighting down the panic and rage that warred within him, Jackson didn’t take his eyes off the four newcomers. 

“Maggie. Spike. Kid. You need to leave now. Get out of here. Now,” he hissed. He grabbed Illya’s jacket and pulled him out of the booth towards Maggie.

Leader man struck first, knocking Jackson out of the way and, leaping on the terrified Maggie, grabbed her arm. She smashed the glass carafe half filled with hot coffee over his head as Jackson leaped to his feet and took out the screaming attacker with a karate chop at the base of his neck.

Illya took that opportunity to launch himself at the nearest man, knocking him off balance then landing on top of him, strategically placing his elbow on the man’s throat as he landed, knocking the wind out of him. He leapt to his feet, crouching to confront the third man.

Spike had come out from behind the counter with a knife to help Maggie but was shot in the leg by the third man and went down. The man had whirled towards Illya and aimed to fire as the front door burst open with Jenkins and Napoleon spreading out and firing sleep darts at the attackers. Fourth man was near the door and swung at Jenkins who knocked the gun out of his hand and stuck his two fingers in the man’s nostrils and lifted until his feet were off the floor, his other hand gripping the guy’s balls, keeping him firmly under control.

Napoleon took out the third attacker who had decided to aim his gun at him. Napoleon looked around and the only sound that could be heard in the diner was the din of distant traffic, the gasping of the second attacker and the whimpering of the creep that Jenkins was holding hostage. Jenkins smiled at him, “Call it in, kid. It’s all yours.” Turning to his whimpering hostage with a wolfish grin, “What? You got somethin’ to say? HUH? Oh you’re going to have plenty of time to tell us what you were doing here, don’t you worry,” and raised his arms a few inches, eliciting a falsetto shriek from his captive.

***

An ambulance was called for Spike to attend to his wounded leg. The police showed up to take statements. Jenkins and Napoleon showed them their IDs and explained what had happened, the police satisfying themselves that the wounded attackers were all alive. Officer Fitzgerald surveyed the damage to the diner, Jenkins and Illya, who had dropped his terrified act, and shook his head. Jenkins told him he wanted to take his captive in for questioning, a request that was met with a shrug from Fitzgerald, “What are WE gonna do with him? WHY he attacked your man is your business, but we want him when you’re done.” Jenkins agreed.

Jackson, breathless, was surrounded by cops and U.N.C.L.E. agents and fought the panic and rage that was threatening to overwhelm him again. He felt a steadying hand on his arm, reassuring him. He looked down and saw Maggie holding his arm, looking up at him with an expression of determination that he’d never seen on her before. 

Maggie smiled and closed her eyes briefly and squeezed his arm, understanding, “I think they are your friends,” she said. “Maybe it’s ok to trust them, don’t you think?”

Jenkins had handed off his captive to Napoleon, who had cuffed him and shoved him into a booth. U.N.C.L.E. backup was on their way to collect him. Ilya had wandered over to his side to a smile from Napoleon. 

Jackson surveyed the situation, fighting to keep his heart rate under control. He recoiled at Jenkins’ approach, his hands balling into fists. “You’re taking me in, aren’t ya?”

“You haven’t been keeping your appointments,” Jenkins responded mildly. “You’re getting yourself into trouble and it’s not necessary. We have more information about that drug that you were given your last time out, and the eggheads say they have a treatment. We’re trying to HELP you, you dumbshit.”

Jackson took a deep breath, then another, squeezing his eyes shut. That feeling he had when he first started talking to the Russian was still there and told him this big white guy in front of him was telling the truth. He nodded. He moved to go with Jenkins and noted the tightening of the hands on his arm. He tried to smile reassuringly down at the young lady who held on to him to let her know it was going to be ok, even if he himself wasn’t sure. There was no point trying to fight these two, Jenkins and Solo, when he knew well enough to know he’d lose. He patted her hand and followed Jenkins and Napoleon out of the diner as the U.N.C.L.E. van pulled up behind the ambulance to collect the attacker Jenkins was holding.

Napoleon, Jackson and Jenkins piled in the car three blocks away, Jackson following mostly peacefully. Illya started to climb in after them when Napoleon stopped him.

“You can take the subway,” he told him firmly, his nose wrinkling. Jenkins chuckled and waved. 

Illya gaped at them. “You can’t be serious,” he croaked, his accent back to normal.

Jackson looked him up and down, “DAMN, boy! You’ll clear the goddamn station!” and slammed the door.

***

Once back at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, numerous tests were run on Willis Jackson, both mental and chemical, to determine the best method to treat him. As suspected, the drugs he had been administered by THRUSH during his capture had lingered in his system, enhancing his paranoia and rage, causing frequent panic attacks. His rage and grief at the torture and death of his partner Josh Eidlin in front of him were never far from his mind either, exacerbating his emotional torment. The science division and Medical had determined the drug and electronic therapy needed to minimize and counteract the effects of the drug, but he would still need counseling to deal with the loss of his partner.

Interrogation of the attacker that was brought back revealed that the men were indeed from THRUSH who had been following Jackson for some time to observe the aftereffects of the drug. They wanted to bring him in to eliminate him, since his body still carried the effect of the drug in him that was a testament to their failure since the drug’s effects were supposed to be temporary.

Jackson arose from the couch after the technician had removed his headset feeling better than he had in more than a year. The feelings ignited in him in his last visit to the diner had grown stronger and felt more… HIMSELF. He showered and shaved and donned the suit that U.N.C.L.E. had provided and looked at himself in the mirror in the men’s room, feeling like a new man. The dazed feeling he had from the diner was gone, and in fact, the miasma he had been in for the last several months was diminished considerably. He was almost happy. He smiled.

“Yeah, you’re gorgeous, you son of a bitch.” 

Jackson turned and smiled at the large, crew cut wearing man standing behind him, grinning. 

“Feeling better?” Jenkins asked.

Jackson smiled, then laughed, embracing his friend, who hugged him back, clapping him on the back. 

“Glad to have you back with the living,” Jenkins said, giving Jackson a tap on the cheek.

“Glad to BE back,” Jackson smiled in return, then growing serious. “Man, I was in some serious shit. I don’t know what to do with that. Did you see where I was living? Damn!”

“It’s not your fault. You can’t be held responsible for shit that was done to you, man,” Jenkins replied seriously. “C’mon, Mister Waverly wants to talk to us before you go.”

The two men strode through the grey, metallic corridors then hit the elevator to reach Waverley’s office. Jackson marveled at the thought that he used to know these hallways intimately, but now it was just a maze to him and said as much. Jenkins smiled sadly, responding that in less than a week he’d be in the same boat.

The two men entered Waverley’s office where there were two men with him waiting. Waverly rose, ‘Ah gentlemen, have a seat, please.”

They seated themselves around the table, Jackson looking around the room that he knew he was once intimately familiar with, but now was strange to him. He nodded to Waverly and Napoleon and stopped when he saw Illya, who was now cleaned up wearing a black suit and tie sitting there, watching him. He noticed the U.N.C.L.E. badge on him bearing the number 2. The young Russian nodded a greeting, which Jackson returned, bemused.

“You? Really?” he said to Illya.

“Me. Really,” replied Illya hoarsely with a half smile.

Realization struck, “You’re U.N.C.L.E.” he exclaimed. “YOU are the one Dunham attacked in Boston!” Illya nodded. “Mark didn’t say you were a Soviet…,” he started, then caught himself, looking from Illya to Napoleon to Waverly. He smiled in wonder. His memories of U.N.C.L.E. were vague, but this was definitely a new development, a Soviet agent. At U.N.C.L.E. no less!

Waverly explained to Jackson that they had been able to counteract the drug that was still in his system, so the paranoia and panic should be gone, but he was still expected to meet with the U.N.C.L.E. psychologist to talk about any lingering trauma from what happened to Eidlin. Jackson nodded gravely and agreed. As long as that drug wasn't going to affect him, making him suspicious of U.N.C.L.E, he would definitely keep the appointments.

Jenkins walked Jackson to the exit at Del Floria’s, Jenkins handing her his badge temporarily, Jackson handing in his visitor’s badge. Once on the street, they waited for the cab that was called to take Jackson back to the Bronx. Jackson had decided he wasn’t going to stay there, but was planning on getting a place in Brooklyn. 

The two men stood on the sidewalk and looked at each other for a moment. 

“When do YOU retire?” Jackson asked.

“Next week,” Jenkins responded wistfully. “I have to say, I sort of wish I wasn’t. Lots of battles to fight and I’m in my prime, you know?”

Jackson chuckled, “Yeah, I know the feeling. But we have to hand off to the younger generation. We slow down, you know? We have to trust the kids to continue our work, right?”

Jenkins thought for a moment and nodded, “Yeah. And you know what? U.N.C.L.E. is in good hands.”

Jackson smiled in agreement. If Solo and Kuryakin were any indication, everything was going to be all right. 

The cab arrived, Jackson gave the driver the address, and with a wave, he rode the taxi out of sight. Jenkins watched him go and turned to enter the tailor shop.

***

The swirly patterns on the device in front of him stopped, the voice had silenced. Then, “How do you feel?”

“Fine,” answered Jenkins, as if coming out of a deep slumber. 

Some questions were asked which he couldn’t answer. The technician nodded and turned off his equipment and looked up at the two men behind Jenkins.

Napoleon tapped him on the shoulder and Jenkins rose, stretching. He was suddenly lost. He knew he was in a labyrinth and didn’t know his way out. He smiled hesitently at the two young men who were waiting, Napoleon and… Illya. Yes, their names were Napoleon and Illya. Illya. His pulse quickened and he flushed slightly. He smiled.

“Ok then!” He clapped his hands together in forced cheerfulness, “I guess this is where you guys show me outta here, right?”

“That’s right,” Napoleon agreed clapping him on the shoulder and leading the way, Illya falling in step behind them.

“What does it feel like?” Illya asked curiously. 

Jenkins chuckled, “It feels weird. After almost twenty years in this place I knew it like the back of my hand. Now it’s all… I dunno, strange. Sort of like a place in a half-forgotten dream, you know?”

“What are you going to do now? Any plans for your retirement?” Napoleon asked as they rounded the last corner to the corridor leading to reception, and through the door, Del Floria’s.

“Well, my brother wants to set up a consulting company. Security consulting. I’m considering going in with him eventually. I’ve been saving up some money and I think first thing I’m going to do is visit Germany, maybe travel Europe for a bit. I have a dear friend in Berlin I’m anxious to see again.” He turned to Illya, “You remember Emil Richter, don’t you?”

“I do! Yes! Good man. Please do give him my best,” Illya smiled.

Jenkins assured him he would.

They handed their badges to the receptionist who rose and gave Jenkins a peck on the cheek. He hugged her goodbye, urging her to take care, then he strode out into the tailor shop for the last time.

“Well boys, this is it,” Jenkins declared, suddenly choking up. He studied the faces of the young men that he wouldn’t be able to work with and get to know better. He doubed he’d ever see them again and the thought made him oddly emotional.

“Napoleon,” he said sticking out his hand, Napoleon shaking it. “It was fabulous working with you. You’re going to do great things, I just know it. You’ll be chief encorcement agent in no time.”

“Thanks,” grinned Napoleon. “It's been really great working with you.”

Jenkins turned to Illya, feeling his heart breaking. “And you, you little shit…” Illya had stuck his hand out to shake Jenkins’, but in a move that surprised even himself, he wrapped the slight, very surprised young Russian in a bear hug, squeezing him tightly until the knot in his throat loosened.

“Sorry I didn’t give you a better reception when you first transferred here,” he said, releasing the startled Illya. “I was an ass. Thankfully I had a chance to work with you before I retired, even on this milk run.” His eyes moved from Illya to the bemused Napoleon and nodded with satisfaction. “I retire secure in the knowledge that U.N.C.L.E. is in good hands. I suspect you two are going to take very good care of yourselves. And each other.”

Napoleon chuckled, “You take care of yourself and have a long, fruitful retirement. Feel free to write if you get the chance.”

Jenkins climbed into his car with a wave, “I’ll send ya a post card!” 

He drove off, his car rounding the corner and he was gone. Illya turned to look at Napoleon who was still looking towards where Jenkins’ car had turned. 

“You ok?” he asked.

“Hm? Oh yes. Yes, fine. I was just thinking. One day it’s going to be us driving away for the last time.”

“Hopefully when we retire,” Illya responded dryly. 

“My thoughts exactly.” Napoleon checked his watch, it was slightly past noon. “Want to get lunch? I know a little place…” but was cut off by the two tone alert from his communicator. He sighed and answered.

“Mister Solo, I trust Mister Jenkins has been sent on his way.”

“Uh yes sir, he just drove off.”

“Good, good. We’ll miss him, he was a good agent. If you could collect Mister Kuryakin, I want to see you both in my office. There is a matter of utmost importance that I need you to take care of.”

Napoleon and Illya shrugged, “Yes sir, we’ll be right there,” and closed his communicator. “Looks like we’ll have to take a rain check on that lunch.”

They turned to head down the steps into Del Florias, “ ‘Rain check?’ “ Illya asked. 

Napoleon chuckled and explained as they collected their badges from reception and hurried to Waverly’s office.


	5. Epilog

It had been two weeks since she last saw Jackson and Maggie was feeling the emptiness that comes when something welcome and familiar is gone. The damage to the diner had been repaired, paid for by some charitable organization, Spike wasn’t clear on exactly who it was. Sounded like a relative, he said. Customers came and went and still that familiar face was not among them.  _I’ve seen the last of him_ , she thought to herself sadly. _I hope he’s all right and that those men WERE his friends._

She was behind the counter making out a grocery list when the door opened and another customer came in then moved to sit in the booth where Jackson used to always sit.  She sighed and grabbed her pad to take his order.  

“Good morning, miss.  I’ll have the french toast, scrambled eggs and bacon.  And coffee.  With cream.”

She finished writing and looked up at the customer, a very well-dressed clean-cut black gentleman who looked almost familiar.  She dropped her pad in startled recognition, the man laughed.

“How’ve you been, Maggie?  Been too long, I’ve missed you.”

“M-M-Mister Jackson?” she stammered.

“Willis, please.  Yep, the very same.  I don’t clean up too badly, do I?” he said with a chuckle.

Maggie felt her face flushing as Jackson bent to pick up her pad and hand it to her.

“I’ll get your coffee and put your order in,” she smiled.  

“Grab a cup for yourself.  There aren't any other customers in here, you can sit with me for a spell, couldn’t you?”

“I can!” She said eagerly, then placed the order with Spike and poured two coffees.

She sat in the booth across from Jackson and they talked.  Jackson was telling her about his plans for the future that to her delight included her.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have to thank vintagetvfan on tumblr for the idea of having a character suffering from post traumatic stress disorder from his time at U.N.C.L.E. I liked that idea far better than what this was going to be originally - I had no idea where I was going with that one, but this was very workable. 
> 
> I'm pleased with how it turned out.


End file.
